Only in New York
by Doomed But Over It
Summary: Mark and Roger both have problems with thier lives and realize, maybe they aren't happy because they are with the wrong people. Rated T for Mark and Roger's mouths. MarkRoger


**Clean and In Control **

**By Doomed but Over It **

Mark was clean. That was how he would be remembered for as long as he was remembered. The one to survive, the good one, the nice Jewish boy who Maureen dumped, the safe choice, the good boy from down the street.

Mark hated it. What was wrong with him cutting lose, getting stoned, mixing a homegrown brew in old paint cans? He had a right, no, a duty, as a resident of New York to get mixed up in something on the south side of the law. Something! Anything! But every time he reached for Collins' stash or Roger's beer, something stopped his hands. What the fuck was wrong with him? He could screw up his life if he felt like it.

Every time he went to Life Support meetings, he was isolated from the others, cut off, a stranger outside of their circle of grief.

"I want SOMETHING!" Mark cried, punching the wall. He eyed it with disgust. His knuckles turned red. If Roger hit the wall, he would make a decent dent. If Collins hit the wall a few pictures would fall down. If _Maureen _hit the wall, there would be a fucking hole! But if poor widdle Marky hit the wall? His knuckles turn red.

He reached again, for the weed. His hands dropped…what was the point? It wouldn't help. Nothing would help. That was why he was clean. He knew nothing would help this pathetic shell of a life he was stuck in.

_I want something, _Mark thought. _No, not really. I want something else. I can't do this anymore. I want something else. Something new. Not the normal crap; I want to…I want to…who knows? All I know is that where I am sucks, so no where else could suck more. _

What had he always called on, to get him through? What made everything better? His camera? Maureen? Mark had no answer.

He grabbed his bike, and left the Keep. He needed to think.

Roger slammed the door to the loft. What the fuck made Mimi think she could talk that way to him? Before he was there, she was a dancer at a cheap club, and a junkie. He was the reason she was back on her feet. He just wanted to be happy, with her. Why wouldn't she settle down? He was sick of not knowing where his next meal would come from, and if it was dirty money she was so proud to be bringing home.

Roger Davis, Rock Star, was gone. Roger Davis, Man, was here to stay. Who said you can't start over? All you needed to do was rent a decent suit, go to some interviews. People couldn't be too picky. If you hadn't been in jail and hadn't been on weed or happy juice for at least a year, you were golden. Roger hadn't had such a hard time finding someone who would listen to him. Now he was working steady, part time, for Apple's. He started out as the coffee and floor sweeping guy, now he was the supervisor dude. _Take what'cha get. _Roger rolled his eyes. At this rate, he would be the café man soon! That was a 50 cent pay raise. The Old Roger Rock Star would have pitied the average lower class worker, but the Old Roger Rock Star would probably be over the moon with a needle up his arm.

Mimi had no right to _accuse_ him of being different. Damn straight, he was different. He was _better. _New Roger Man was ready for anything New York threw at him. He could take Mimi being thrown a little, but this was getting stupid. Despite the changes, he was really the same person. Just improved. Mimi had fallen in love with a desperate man, a half junkie, half maniac. She couldn't really prefer Crazy Roger to Good In Control Roger. Could she?

He flopped down on the couch Benny had donated. It was kind of scary how good Collins was at "finding" wallets. Roger patted his back pocket, just in case. Safe, thank whoever was up or down there. _Is it healthy to be dividing myself up like this? Isn't that something they put people in the funny farm for? _He sighed. _Just not now. I have to much stuff to deal with to be crazy on top of all that._ He drifted off into a deep sleep, and when he woke, he could remember only surreal snatches of screaming strippers.

Mark rode too hard and too fast, putting everything behind him. People screamed and jumped out of his way. He felt himself overheating, his stomach contracting, choking, falling….falling…falling…

More screaming ensued, along with shouts of "Call 911!", "Do something!", "Is he breathing?" and "Oh my God, Jesus, HELP!"

He lay there, with his bike on top of him, and faded. _Is this the end? Can you die from riding to fast? _

Mark felt himself being picked up, his bike being loaded into a taxi with him too. Someone was there too, holding him, cradling him, and screaming at the driver to get to the fucking hospital already. Mark relaxed. He couldn't see who this person was, or even what gender, but he felt…safe. He drifted away from the conscious world again.

Roger sat in an uncomfortable hospital chair, biting his lip. He called Mimi, but she didn't answer, and everyone else was at an anniversary party for Maureen and Joanne. Mark opted not to go, and Mimi and Roger couldn't get away from work for two weeks to go to Louisiana. He stewed, freaking out for Mark, and wondering. What had happened in that taxi? Was there a… no. That was ridiculous even putting aside the obvious problems. But even so… Something had happened. Something.

Mark woke. He had tubes coming out of him, and there were scary hospital machines hooked up to him. _When I said I wanted to try needles, I didn't mean _this, he thought. He shuddered at the horrible disinfectant smell that seemed to breed where ever there were hospitals and white coats. He tried to remember what happened…going fast, much too fast, and falling. And then, being saved by strong arms, and a musky scent. Where was that smell from? The disinfectant seemed to be trying to wipe the memory from his head. Mark paled as he made the connection. _Oh god. Axe. Axe aftershave. _The machines' steady beeping sped to an alarming rate. The nurse that was monitoring him rushed in, yelling, and suddenly the room was full of doctors shouting in medical speak. A mask was forced over his nose and mouth. "No! No! Roger!" he tried to scream, but they just took the opportunity and he drifted off into dreamless unconscious.

**Author's Notes--- Sorry about the angsty first chapter, this is gonna be a short one. I love you all, please read and review, and don't forget to check out my other fan fictions. Oh, ja, so sorry about Mark not getting any witty lines in! My beta told me it wasn't realistic, so he just gets knocked out more. **

**Love, **

**Doomed (and Kiki Nalani Saraphina Isabel, the Muse)**


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